‘Can you do it?’ said Connor.
Sonny looked up from tying her laces, lights in her trainers winking in the sunset. ‘You know I can,’ she said.
Her hair was tied in a tangled pony tail, Hello Kitty tee shirt smudged with yesterday’s breakfast beans, eaten cold from the can.
Foot swinging, heel tapping on a slumped gravestone, his sister looked the eight-year-old she was. Not for long, he thought.
A blanket was already spread in the shadow of the archway. Sonny positioned herself on it and lay down, head pointing towards the tumbledown church, toes to the sweeping valley below. Her eyes closed, hands folding neatly on her chest.
He watched, though he hated to see the moment the little girl in her slipped away.
Then her face convulsed, rearranged, settled into new folds.
‘Connor?’ said Sonny in a voice that wasn’t hers.